Gemotions

The thud jolted Arthur awake, a deep rumble that shook the dusty framed photographs on his wall. He squinted at the morning light, already too bright, too expectant. He knew, before he even swung his legs over the side of the bed, what it was. The ancient oak next door. Again. He dragged himself to the window, his back aching, and saw the colossal sprawl of branches and splintered wood across Mrs. Henderson’s meticulously manicured lawn. He sighed, the sound lost in the growing morning clamor.

He shuffled downstairs, feeling the resistance in his ankles with each step. The smell of coffee was a feeble comfort, but the task before him felt monumental. He knew Mrs. Henderson would be frantic. He knew he'd have to help. He just didn't know how he was going to find the energy.

He poured a cup, the bitter taste doing little to rouse him. He stared out the window, at the devastation, at the approaching figure of Mrs. Henderson, and wondered if he could feign a sudden illness. Perhaps a touch of the flu? It was the perfect time of year.